​“I can’t sleep,” whispered Ella, her voice barely louder than the rustling leaves outside her window. She turned on her side, eyes wide open, staring at the city lights on the ceiling. The moonlight streamed through the window, casting long, eerie shadows across her room. She had been awake for hours, her mind a restless sea of thoughts.
 
Beside her, the Tesco guy stirred in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. Ella envied people who slipped into dreams with ease. For Ella, each night was a battle, her mind refusing to quieten, her thoughts spinning like the fan above.
 
Her room, awash in ghostly moonbeams, transformed at night. The distant car horns and the low hum of early commuters were familiar yet alien. Sleep had eluded Ella since childhood, her memories pocked with gaps she couldn’t fill. In recent years, her insomnia intensified, doctors blaming it on stress, on the precariousness strangling every aspect of her life.
 
Ella shut her eyes, trying to sync with the rhythm of her breath, hoping it would coax her into slumber. Instead, her mind conjured vivid images: towering trees rustling in the wind, the earthy scent of the forest, the thrill of darting through underbrush. The distant calls of unseen animals echoed in her ears, igniting an ancestral thrill.
 
These visions are always so vivid, so out of place.
 
Ella’s heart raced, and she couldn’t understand why these images flooded her mind. It was as if some primal part of her was awakening, stirring memories of a life she had never lived. The scents of the forest seemed so real, so tangible, that she could almost taste them in the air – the dampness of moss, the musky smell of fallen leaves, the sharp tang of pine.
 
She had only been to the woods a few times with Tania.
“I did everything I could” were her last words before closing the door of her Mini Cooper. Ella remained silent as always. And it seemed all her relationships ended because of her unbearable silence.
 
Yet, Tania had been the one who understood her the most, perhaps the only one. When they had met again at a class reunion dinner of now thirty-something ex-classmates, she had been struck by her well-put-together appearance, her hands deep in her pockets, her sparing interactions so direct and incisive they came across as sharp. Over time, those exceptional details had turned into neglect, indifference, selfishness, and arrogance on Tania’s lips.
 
She was accustomed to sleeping in a supine position, but now, she found it impossible. She tossed and turned, trying in vain to roll over, but inevitably ended up on her side again. After countless attempts, she gave up, her body aching in a dull, unfamiliar way.
 
“What in the world has happened?” she thought, bewildered. Her small bedroom, with its familiar, cosy clutter, lay quiet in the early morning light. Her laptop was open on the desk where she’d left it last night, surrounded by scattered notes and unpaid bills. A poster of a serene landscape hung on the wall, a recent addition intended to bring a touch of nature into her urban apartment. But that night, a strange feeling in the air settled deep in her bones.
 
Ella shifted under her blankets, trying to find a comfortable position, but her body felt oddly out of place, like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong spot. There was a tingling sensation in her limbs, a subtle but persistent itch that seemed to crawl beneath her skin. With a sigh, she slipped out of bed, her feet touching the smooth wooden floor. She finds it weird, as she was expecting a different sensation.
 
She stumbled toward the kitchen, her balance off, forcing her to crawl. Reaching the fridge, she poured herself a glass of milk. She held it with difficulty but managed to bring it to her mouth anyway. That’s when she heard a faint scratching sound, like something clawing at the back door. Ella froze, the glass of milk halfway to her lips. The sound was subtle but persistent, a desperate, rhythmic scraping that set her nerves on edge.
 
She considered ignoring it, dismissing it as a nocturnal animal or a branch swayed by the wind. But curiosity, perhaps a trace of fear, nudged her towards the back door. As she approached, the scratching grew more insistent, more urgent.
 
Ella’s hand trembled slightly as she reached for the doorknob. She hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. What if it wasn’t just a stray animal? What if opening the door invited in something sinister, something that the darkness hid?
 
Taking a deep breath, Ella steeled herself and slowly turned the knob. The door creaked open, revealing the shadow-strewn backyard. Her eyes scanned the darkness, searching for the source of the noise.
Then she saw them – a pair of luminescent eyes, reflecting the moonlight, peering at her from the edge of the woods. Ella gasped, stepping back instinctively. The creature, whatever it was, didn’t move. It just watched her, its gaze unwavering and eerily intelligent.
 
She should have been afraid, closed the door and retreated to the safety of her home. But something about those eyes held her in place, a magnetic pull she couldn’t resist. They beckoned to her, promising answers to questions she hadn’t even realized she’d been asking. Ella found herself stepping outside, her bare feet touching the dewy grass. The night air was delicate against her body. She walked towards the creature, her heart racing with fear and fascination.
 
Closer now, the creature’s form resolved – a fox with fur like burnished copper and eyes aglow with otherworldly light. It regarded her with calm expectancy. The fox tilted its head, then turned, vanishing into the forest. Ella hesitated, then followed. The wood at night was a labyrinth of shadows and whispers. The fox led her deeper, its red fur a beacon in the darkness.
 
The forest embraced her, its ancient whispers enveloping her in a foreign and familiar world. She felt an awakening within, the world coming alive in vibrant hues and whispered secrets. A surge of energy electrified her, images flashing in her mind: endless forests, starlit skies, the exultation of the hunt. These weren’t mere dreams but memories resurfacing from a once-lived life.
 
“What is this?” Ella whispered, her heart racing.
 
Looking into the fox’s eyes, she felt an undeniable connection, a sense of belonging that she had never felt before.
"How can this be?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Ella thought of her endless nights, the insomnia that plagued her, the feeling of being out of place in her own life. It all made sense now – she was never meant to live a human life.
 
“What do I do?” she asked, a mix of fear and excitement coursing through her. Ella closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She could feel it now, the pull of her true nature urging her to let go. She surrendered to it, feeling her body begin to change. The sensation was indescribable – a mingling of pain and euphoria as her form shifted. Her senses sharpened, the smells of the forest becoming more potent, the sounds clearer. She could feel her limbs altering, her skin giving way to fur. Colours were more vibrant, and the night was as clear as day. She looked down at her paws, silver fur glinting in the moonlight. A sense of freedom, pure and exhilarating, filled her.
 
The two foxes ran through the forest, the ground a blur beneath them. Ella had never felt such speed, such agility. She was a flash of silver, a spirit of the forest. As they ran, a deep joy filled her. She realized that she had finally found where she belonged. In the wilds of the forest, under the canopy of stars, she was indeed herself – a fox, free and untamed.
 
And as the dawn approached, painting the sky with hues of pink and gold, Ella felt a peace she had never known. In her heart, she was home.

Published by 
Continue The Voice, Issue 16 (June 26, 2022)
https://issuu.com/continuethevoicezine/docs/ctv_16_working_file​

I remember one Sunday when I stayed at home while everyone else was at your funeral. It was a Milanese Sunday like many others. The indecisive sky, the half-empty streets, a day of restless thoughts stretched to Monday. Everyone was at your funeral. Only I was missing. It was supposed to be a farewell day, to say goodbye. I had already said goodbye. For months now, you have been tired of living. You even smell tired with your sugary and rotten scent. I have already said goodbye to you several times. "Goodbye, Marcello", False start. "Uh, are you still here?" False start again. Then one day, you were gone for real. I knew it would have happened, and I was only waiting. There was no need to say anything. You just wanted to be let go. Even now, I can't find anything strange in there. If I think about it, I expected it.

You put on my bras and tried on my clothes when my housemates were out. And for me, it was normal. I screamed at you to take them off because I didn't want them to take your shape. But you insisted on walking on my heels, the tallest ones. I gave in. Then you asked me to button my shirt down to the last button and put on the brown jacket. So, you said, I was Anny Hall, and we could wear our soles through the streets. Milan versus Manhattan. I always satisfied you. Every Italian woman has it in her blood to fulfil the male's whims and fantasies. She needs the male's approval to exist. It assures her she is his favourite slave and gives him the vice of always wanting her around. In this way, she is safe. And Delilah can spare herself the furtive cut of Samson's hair because he will offer her his scalp spontaneously. But we were friends. And those were the dress rehearsals of two young ibex measuring their horns.

After graduation, you dreamed of becoming a linguist, me a researcher. But you wanted me to make up stories, like the ones I wrote and read to you. I've never been able to picture you with your job or your love life. You were born to live others' lives. It terrified you to watch yourself take shape, so you constantly moved to escape the danger. You didn't even sit to study. You memorised pages after pages while walking, on public transport or under the arcades if it rained. Maybe just your ass hurt. Despite your maximum average being with honours, you remained a misfit. And you cover it with imagination and jokes, like a dog after pooped.

I remember the nights walking along via Porpora, and you who approached the prostitutes and called them "Mom!" then apologising for being wrong. You found out where our professors lived, and you took me to their house to ring their bells and then run away – the part you liked best. Or when we went out pubs without paying. We had become experts. Then once they ran after us, I paid for you too, full of shame. You messed up, and I made up for it. Yet you always wanted the best for me. Once again, always for your benefit.

You complained that you came from a family like many others, in your opinion trivial. You wanted obsessively to be surrounded by cultured and literate people. You drowned in books, cinema and theatre, but it was never enough for you. And the faint trail that remained after each binge wasn't sufficient to keep you alive. You expected your friends to shine to give you some light as the moon asks the sun. You were a dynamo that we all kept running while pedalling. No wonder you were excited when I met Giovanni because he taught Italian Literature at our University and lived in a lovely apartment in the centre, a few steps from San Babila. Instead, I fell in love with his thick glasses and the way he disappeared behind a book's trench in the library. He told me that he worked for publishing, and I believed it. I did not know that the very morning I finally found the courage to talk to him, he had tested almost all my friends with the last initial between M and Z.

Months had passed. I started a relationship, and you were a bit much. There was no more space for you, or it was me that I cut myself off. We were both abandoned, with each other and with ourselves. You sank into an increasingly poor reality, and I was practising to be a wife.

I don't remember you in the days I got pregnant. My smell had become sweet and milky. My belly and my breast grow a little in two months. I had quit smoking. I was happy for this child, even though it was not the right moment. I was only 23 and still studying. After the abortion, I had my gaze fixed, and I had stopped eating, and you were talking to me about the winter season of the Strehler Theater. I didn't know where to put all that pain. I had decided to absorb it by asking all my cells to take some. I had opted for the mechanics of bulletproof glass that distribute the impact over the entire surface to prevent the glass from breaking. Thinking back today, we had not chosen to separate ourselves. We were standing in line, and it was our turn. 

You then understand the rites that you judge as barbarians of certain tribes that involve amputating a part of the body to mark the transition from childhood to adulthood. For me, it was a definitive farewell to one part of me to join another unknown and hostile half. The farmers know how difficult the grafts are, and most of the time, the plant dies. But human beings differ from other species for omnipotence and obstinacy. You were rooted in your gem state.

So, in Paris, you jumped into the Seine. In Milan, under the yellow metro. And, I swear, I have heard of complaints that day about the delays. I knew it was your fault. If I laughed, I don't remember now. Then you hung yourself from a tree in the North Park, like Pinocchio. I hope that on the other side, the Dolce Vita has stretched out its arms to you, with Anita Ekberg calling you from the Trevi Fountain with her white and exposed chest, "Come here, Marcello. Hurry up!".

About me, my graft sprig managed to survive in finding a piece of land where to grow. It is a tissue of soil surrounded by pretty houses and kind neighbours. I rise slowly, gradually. Cyclically I produce fruits that cause astonishment. They are red and sweet. I host a few animals. Ants walk in a line on my branches as a collar of pearls. A blackbird, some robin and a family of sparrows found a shield between my leaves and relief in the hot summer days. But I can't do anything to protect them from cats. 

Lately, I should grow big enough because kids have started to play around me. They climb my high and hang to my branches to swing. I can handle their weight. Then two teenagers hid behind my trunk, and they secretly kissed. Last Sunday, the neighbours had a party. They surrounded me with lights and set the table with wine and delicacies. They laughed and joked late into the night. I hadn't noticed, but I was also sitting at their table celebrating.
​

Published by
Flash-Frontier, flash-frontier, March 2022 Thunder
Zephir, May 2022, Issue No.1

Each twisting path among the pines looked the same. How would we get home?
"Whoa... look! What do you think it is?"
The carcass was immense. The land around it had receded to make room for the newcomer. Time and soil had swallowed more than half of it, but the head and torso were still visible.
"A deer?"
We bent down to peer in.
The flaking ribs hosted small animals and insects. Blades of grass twisted all around, making that transitory den cosy and soft. The entrails, now dry, had wrapped like the mountains around a miniature city. Grey and brown veins drew the contours of a completely new place, where the rules of its inhabitants, microbes and bacteria, changed second by second.
Alfredo grabbed a stick and teased the skull's hollows, and gasped when a lizard came out in a flash.
"Look here!"
A raven had signaled its participation in the banquet with its shiny black feather, stuck in the centre of the entrails, like a flag. Little further down, a crater had formed, perhaps in place of the liver, and young cyclamens had sprouted in there. A ladybird flying over the crest of a hip at that very moment shone like a ruby set in stone.
We had never seen a dead body so close. For us, it was fun, but not for the grown-ups. When we told them at home, they said the wolves would return.

​